Boy
by Yet Another Pseudonym
Summary: They say that men like dogs.  Or that women like men who like dogs.  Lysandra Hawke just happens to love her Wolf.  And her mabari. Fenris/FemHawke


"Look at you, boy! Oh, you're so strong, aren't you, boy?" Andra cooed as she scratched the muscular beast under the chin.

"Lysandra, darling, you never take Boy anywhere anymore," Andra's mother said.

None of the rest of Andra's little motley crew hesitated a moment in calling her mother by her given name, but he'd never quite felt comfortable enough to do so. A holdover from Danarius, maybe, but everything seemed to be a holdover. Or perhaps it had other causes. Causes he still cursed himself for, and likely would until either Danarius destroyed him or the abomination came to kill him in his sleep for failing to agree with his desire for complete mage anarchy.

"I still don't understand why you would name such an intelligent creature 'Boy.'" He crouched beside her as close as he dared, close enough to bask in her heat. "It borders on insult."

He didn't just wish for her warmth, but for the faint clean scent of the plain Ferelden soap she always used. The smell of _scrubbing_, the hint of breeze in a batch of fresh washing.

"Because he's suuuuch a boooy." She rubbed the top of the mabari's head. "Suuuch a gooooood boy!"

The mabari collapsed on his side and rolled on his back.

"Yes, you are, boy!" Those competent fingers lost themselves in the dog's surprisingly plush underbelly. "We'll go for a long stroll tonight, I prooooomise."

"That's hardly an explanation."

He could barely make out her smile behind the curtain of crimson, but he knew from the set of her eyes that her lips curved further upward on the side facing him. He clenched his fist at his side and forced himself to resist the urge to push it back. It didn't escape him that wrist that seized up was bound up in the scarf she'd worn the first time she visited him in his mansion. Nor did it escape him, much as he'd stare at it constantly when she wasn't with him, that it matched the offending hair almost perfectly. She shook her head, finally lodging most of the red mass behind her shoulder. The lips twisted upward more, then the cheeks above them suddenly mirrored the fire the dwarf kept constantly lit.

"Dear, you never told him the story?"

"There's no story, Mother." She stared down at the lolling dog and let him slobber over her hand before wiping it clean on his belly fur.

"Malcom purchased Boy as a pup a few months before he died, Maker rest his soul. Carver and my dear girl fought for months over what to call him while Bethany just called him 'Boy.' The bickering became so fierce and so constant whenever the dog was nearby that Boy shied away from both of them. Finally, Lysandra became so tired chasing after the poor pup that she took up Bethany's name. 'Boy, here, Boy,' she called, and the dog glued himself to her. He hasn't left her since."

"I know that feeling," he muttered.

"Who's a good boy, hmmm? Who's the best boy?"

"Darling, remember your engagement tonight with Seneschal Bran's son."

"I told you to give him my regrets."

"You can't remain unattached forever, dear. The Seneschal's son has expressed an interest, and the Seneschal himself finds you a suitable match."

"Mother!"

"You're not getting any younger and I'd like an heir before I die."

"Maker's breath!" Her fingers dug deep into the dog's belly, and Boy whimpered.

"I have my own engagement, dear. I must get ready, so I'll just leave you two _alone_." There was little mistaking that arch tone.

"Subtle, isn't she?" He reached a hand out and rubbed the dog's belly, "accidentally" brushing her fingers.

"It's not what you think," she said, her words too clipped. "She mentions the Seneschal's son constantly. I swear she'll have me married if she has to have someone drug and kidnap me. At times like this, I actually miss Carver."

"The Seneschal's son? She'd have you aim lower than your station."

"I'm holding out for the Seneschal himself."

She watched him intently, those brilliant leaf-colored eyes boring deep into his. He knew what she waited for, some hesitation, some admission, or even a flicker of annoyance. He was damned if he was going to give it to her; she needed to stop _hoping_.

"The Seneschal."

"Oh, those deep, penetrating eyes…" She sighed and stared down at the dog. "He has very _determined_ lips, and his hair just begs for a hand to get lost in it."

"The Seneschal is married, isn't he?"

"Well, I'll just have to wait until Madame Seneschal keels over from some exotic disease, won't I? It won't be long, as many times as I've seen him visiting Anders."

"And this is the man you'd wish to provide you with an heir?"

Boy wriggled and whined. He realized his hand had stopped rubbing while he waited for an answer, and she'd frozen stiff, her own hand poised just under the dog's chin.

"Who needs an heir? Check the Blooming Rose—Gamlen's likely sired a bastard. Or ten."

Boy rolled out from under both sets of hands and trotted off, probably to find Sandal. He expected her to stand, but she squatted next to him, her eyes narrowed by a sardonic smile. His unmarked hand sought the scarf and he gripped it as her eyes tracked the motion.

"You may end up waiting a long time."

The smile softened with her eyes. "Some things are worth waiting for, no matter how long it takes."


End file.
